


Toi que je veux

by allheadybooks



Series: Toi que je veux genderfuck 'verse [1]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: F/F, Female Characters, First Kiss, Genderfuck, Queer Themes, whole team gender&sexswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allheadybooks/pseuds/allheadybooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Whatever, Steve</em>, Danny thinks, <em>you know you're hot, I know you're hot, did nobody ever tell you it's a dick move to tease your dyke friend?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Toi que je veux

**Author's Note:**

> I am imagining Danny, god help me, as a shorter, more compact Nadia Giosia; and Steve as... well, as Steve.  I don't actually have an actress in my head for her; she just looks like a slightly less buff Alex O'Loughlin with long hair.  I don't know what that says about me or O'Lough.  Chin's got a Joan Chen kind of thing going, but a little butcher and more severe, and Kono (who is strangely uninteresting to write as a dude) is sort of like John Cho but more puppyish.  If that makes sense.
> 
> Title from the France Gall song.

"Chin," Danny says for the hundredth time in recent memory, "I have a perfectly good car that seats four, even five people if they're small and don't mind being a little cramped.  Is this strictly necessary?"

"Hop on, brah," Chin says, grinning like she only does when two-wheeled terrors and shotguns are involved.  It's kind of a relief--she's the most serious woman Danny's ever met, with a face like an eternally disappointed mom--so Danny hikes her skirt and gets on the damn bike already.

"This is going to mess up my hair, isn't it," she says, as Chin revs the engine, twists her hands around the handlebars, and takes off at a speed that nearly whiplashes Danny right off the seat.

  


*****

Turns out, it is strictly necessary.  They need to take some shortcuts to reach the suspect before his associates can get their cell phones back from HPD detainment and warn him the cavalry is coming; and in Hawaii, shortcuts mean jungle, dirt roads, thick underbrush that whips at Danny's exposed skin and catches in her hair.  Still, a car wouldn't fit through most of these paths, so it's probably for the best.

"You should let Steve take you shopping," Chin says, as they dismount.  She doesn't have to explain; it's an old argument.

"I dress," Danny says, trying to re-situate her skirt and twist her blouse around so the rips are less visible, "like a freaking professional, you asshole.  I dress like a grownup.  Steve dresses like a twelve-year-old.  No, wait, I dressed better than Steve when I was twelve--Steve dresses like a twelve-year-old with bad taste."

Chin smirks.  Her stupid face wears a smirk very, very emphatically.  And she might have a point, considering that her own jeans, boots, and diagonal-zip leather jacket are completely unscathed.

"I gave up heels for you guys," Danny hisses, as the two of them unholster their guns and creep around the edge of an abandoned shed that is not looking so abandoned now that a new group of Lithuanian terrorists are in town, "do you know how much height that cost me?  I can't intimidate for shit in flats, Chin."

"I don't know, brah," Chin whispers back, "why don't you give it a shot?" and then she's tossing a rock to lure Jurgis Kairelis and his goons out through the shed doors and into shooting range. 

It gets a little crazy after that.

  


*****

Danny's not looking forward to the old familiar ritual of showing her face at HQ with her outfit in tatters.  Even her stupid flat oxfords, the ones she hates but wears because even a kitten heel disappears into the sand around here, have a knife slash across one toe.  Chin took a bullet in the collar of her jacket--a scary moment, for sure--but lucky for her, it just adds to the biker mystique.  As they approach the doors, Danny tries to do some damage control, re-twisting the rope of her hair into a tighter bun, fluffing the pomp like if she can just get some height in front, nobody will notice that there are bloodstains on her nice white shirt.

It doesn't work.  Steve notices.  Danny can see it flash over her face: concern when she sees the blood; a mechanical up-and-down inventory to make sure it's not Danny's; relief when she identifies the splatter pattern as coming from a five-foot-eleven, two hundred pound assailant, or whatever; and then a slow, stupid grin of delight while she decides where to start with the mocking.

"Hey, Danno," Steve says, "you need a spare t-shirt?  Because I've got one in my office that should fit you."

"Did it come out of a shrink-wrapped three-pack at Target?"  Danny asks.  "Does it have a picture of a muscly dude in his underwear on the package?  Because if so, no, I don't think so, Steve.  Jesus."

Steve grins.  Her hair is doing that stupid wavy thing it does when she swims in a braid and then lets it air-dry, gray glinting at the temples, and her dumb little grin is blinding.  Danny feels a gut-deep twinge despite herself, and it's almost a relief when the landline rings in her office.

"Gotta get that," she says, and ducks out.

"Who calls your landline?" Steve shouts after her.  "What is this, 1993?"

"Hello?" Danny says, as politely as she can manage, because when the landline rings it's usually about money, or paperwork, or something else she needs to do damage control on.

"Daniella," Rachel drawls, "you're not answering your mobile.  May I remind you that you explicitly asked me to tell you when Grace needed picking up, so you could do it?  And that I cannot give you messages in a timely fashion if you don't answer your mobile?"

"Yeah, Rachel," Danny says, "I probably didn't hear it because I was on a motorcycle, and then there was a lot of gunfire, and I was just kind of distracted, overall, okay?"

There's a silence.  It is the long, irritating silence of the no-longer-civil-unioned.

"Well," Rachel says, "you're lucky, it's not too late.  I haven't sent the driver yet, so if you leave now you can go ahead and pick her up from school.  Stan and I have a dinner engagement, so if she wants to stay at yours for the night I wouldn't object."

"Thank you," Danny says, teeth gritted, but she feels her shoulders release a little tension at the prospect of an unscheduled evening with Grace.  The indignity of it still stings, though, of time with her own daughter--fuck genetics, Grace is hers just as much as she's Rachel's--being doled out like rewards for good behavior.  She hangs up the phone and takes some deep, calming breaths.

"I'm out," Danny says, flapping a hand in the direction of Steve's office.  "Picking up Gracie.  I've got her until tomorrow morning, so do not call me, McGarrett, I will not answer my phone."

Steve hangs in the doorway, looking weirdly disappointed.  She leans an elbow on the doorjamb, which throws her bicep and shoulder muscles, and the cut valley between them, into sharp relief.  _Whatever, Steve_ , Danny thinks, _you know you're hot, I know you're hot, did nobody ever tell you it's a dick move to tease your dyke friend?  
_  
"So in the morning, should I--" Steve asks.

Danny sighs.  "I'll pick you up after I drop Gracie off at school," she says.  "Let's just assume you owe me breakfast, okay?  And I want the good coffee this time, not that sugary mocha stuff you like."

"Okay," Steve says, and grins again.  "Whatever you say, Danno."

  


*****

Grace has a science project due on Thursday, and apparently there is no room for anything else in her brain.

"I watched them all bounce," Grace says in the car on the way to Danny's place, "and then I measured how high they went!  Stan helped me, we used a camera to take pictures!"

"That's nice, monkey," Danny says.

"Then I made a poster with all the numbers on it!" Grace exclaims, standing at Danny's elbow while she flips the kitchen-sink omelette that's going to have to pass for dinner tonight.

"That's nice, monkey," Danny says.

And somehow, she's still going at bedtime.  She actually interrupts Danny's story about Brave Princess Grace the Dragon-Slayer to explain the scientific method: "You decide what you think is going to happen, Danno, and you write it down!  And then you make up a test so you can find out if that's actually what happens or not!  And it's important to be wrong too, you learn a lot by being wrong, Mrs. Kekoa said."

"I know, monkey," Danny says, and smiles.  Grace is safe in bed with her Dorothy doll tucked under her arm--it pre-dates Stan and his money, so it's cheap and homemade, two layers of felt stuffed with batting in a blue check jumper.  Danny remembers Rachel putting it together; late at night, for a week running, she'd dig out her little plastic sewing kit and tack on some more brown yarn for hair, stitch velcro to the straps of the dress, cross-stitch a red mouth, blue eyes.  It's not really very well made.  The batting is poking out of one hand and half the hair had pulled out within a month; but Grace still loves it, won't sleep without it, and it breaks Danny's heart every time she knocks the American Girl dolls and Barbies off the bed to curl up around Dorothy.

Danny drops a kiss on Grace's hair.  "Good night, babe," she says, her hand on the lightswitch.

"Good night, Danno," Grace says, and rubs her little face against Dorothy's mangy hair.  Danny turns out the light.

  


*****

It's just Steve's truck in the driveway when Danny pulls up, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything.  She still bears psychological scarring from the time the door opened on a shirtless hunk and Steve's voice calling from the bedroom "Is that Danny?  Did she bring malasadas?"  That was a hundred kinds of awkward, even after Danny had been formally introduced to Lieutenant Chris Rollins, Navy Intelligence, and Steve had returned to the bedroom to get dressed because "a sheet is not clothes, McGarrett, I don't even care if it's cargo pants again, just put something on so we can go to work like responsible adults, okay?"

She's alone this time, thank god.  She lifts her chin to acknowledge Danny's existence and then lopes off down the hall, barefoot, her wet braid leaving a damp patch down the back of her t-shirt.  Danny takes a moment to watch her walk: sure of herself, without Danny's own exaggerated confidence; she walks like she's used to winning, like she's never not gotten what she wants.  Which Danny knows is a lie.  She's sure Steve never wanted this house to be so empty.

"Breakfast?" Danny asks, as Steve re-emerges with her boots half-laced and the thigh pockets of her cargos bulging with what could be, but are not necessarily, grenades.

"Yeah," Steve says.  She's weirdly subdued today.  Danny gets a flash of that first time they met in the garage, the stubbornness and the intensity, her hair pulled back tight and her hand sharp and steady on her gun.  Steve gets in the car, careful not to jostle her pockets too much, Danny notes, and lets Danny drive them to the one conveniently located cafe whose pastries are as good as their coffee.

"Seriously, Stephanie," Danny says, "what is up with you today?"

"What?" Steve says, eyes on her uneaten scone.

"You wanna pretend you don't know, go ahead," Danny says, "your Army stoicism is showing."

"Navy, Danny," Steve says, and yeah, Danny knows.  She's seen Steve swim, she knows Steve would have been a SEAL, if she'd been born a dude.

Danny gets three more sips of coffee in before Steve cracks.  "Your apartment is no place for a kid, Danny," she says, staring grimly down at the table.  "It's small, the light is bad, your kitchen is always empty--"

"Are you implying," Danny hisses, "that I do not take care of my child--"

"No, Danny!" Steve shouts, and wow, this went from conversation to argument _fast_.  "I'm implying that I have a whole house full of empty bedrooms, on the _beach_ , Danny, and a huge fucking kitchen I have no other use for, and you've never once asked if you can bring Grace over.  Not once."  She's trying to stare Danny down--clenched jaw, steely eyes, quick breaths through her dumb aristocratic nose--but it's not working, because Danny has just translated her words into English.

"Are you saying," Danny asks, "are you saying you're angry I don't invite myself over often enough?"

"Not you," Steve says, "Grace, when Grace is over, you know.  Not just you."

"Well, excuse me," Danny grumbles, and sips her coffee.  "I didn't want to get in the way of your time with Lieutenant Beefcake."

Steve looks confused.  "Who?"

"That guy who was over," Danny says, "that one time, Lieutenant Rollins or whatever."

"Oh, Chris," Steve says, "don't worry about that, that's not a thing."

"It sure looked like a thing," Danny says, and if that's resentment in her voice she's going to pretend it's just lingering anger from the Stan debacle, or maybe she'll say she hates straight people, or it's unprofessional, or something--she doesn't have it worked out yet.

"It's not," Steve says softly.  "It never was."

"Good," Danny says, and then adds quickly, "I thought you had better taste than that, is all.  In men, I mean, I've never had any illusions about your taste in clothes."

"He's a good guy," Steve says.  "I think you'd like him, if you got to know him."

"Hmm," Danny says, and she can feel herself squinting skeptically.  But the coffee is good, the coffee is amazing, and Steve actually paid for it, so she decides not to argue.

  


*****

So after all that, Danny can't just drop into Steve's office and announce that she has Grace for the weekend and she'll see the team on Monday.  Steve has backed her into a corner with her big needy eyes and the sad stillness of her stupid house.  She has to invite herself over--but she doesn't have to be happy about it.

"Steve," she says, hanging in the doorway with her best put-upon expression, "would you please do me the honor of accompanying my daughter and I to your stupid house on Saturday morning, you grenade-carrying lunatic?"

Steve grins that cute little grin, the one that dissolves every cynical impulse in Danny's body.  She closes her laptop and crosses her forearms over it, fingers laced, her big-ass waterproof watch black against the tan of her skin.  And Danny has a thing for butch women in watches or wrist cuffs, okay, it's like early imprinting from this girl she used to follow around first year of college, and she just rolls her eyes because Steve, Steve, Steve will just not quit it.  She might not even know what she's doing.

"I'll take care of lunch," Steve says.  "I have an idea."

"Oh, God, what have I just agreed to," Danny moans, clapping a palm to her forehead.  "What, are you going to shoot a bird out of the sky, pluck the feathers out with your teeth and grill it over an open fire?  Catch fish with your bare hands and rip it into sushi-sized chunks with your teeth?  I cannot wait, Stephanie, to hear more about your _idea_."

Steve looks mildly affronted.  "No," she says, "first of all, I would never give raw fish to a child, and I never trained to shoot birds, Danny.  What exactly do you think I did in the Navy?"

"I don't know," Danny groans, banging the back of her head against the doorframe.  "Whatever, just feed us, okay?  Something edible.  Cooked, even.  We'll be there at ten."

"Great," Steve says, smiling again.  The corners of her mouth wrinkle up, and she suddenly looks her age in a really, really appealing way.

As Danny's walking back to her office to grab some files and head home, Kono breaks his focus on the computer display just long enough to say "Did you need somebody to shoot birds, Danny?  Because my cousin taught me how to do that."

"No, Kono," Danny says, "we don't actually need--and how many cousins do you two have, anyway?  Are they all insane?"

"Pretty much, brah," Kono says, and high-fives Chin over the computer screen.

  


*****

Steve's idea is hamburgers on the grill, with grilled pineapple (which she lets Danny opt out of, because she caught the look Danny gave her and Steve probably wants to live to see thirty-five) and some kind of secret spice blend mixed into the beef.

"I could tell you," Steve says, flipping the patties with a sizzle and winking at Grace, "but then I'd have to kill you."

"Steve, jeez!" Danny shouts, as Grace's eyes widen in shock.

"Really?" Grace asks, seeming less afraid of the idea than Danny had expected.  "Like pirates?"

"Sorta like pirates, yeah.  And not really," Steve says.  "Chill, Danny.  Your haole is showing."  Then she gives Grace a low-five and sends her to the kitchen to grab the plates and buns.

"Yeah, well, your jerkass is showing, jerkass," Danny says, but she's smiling.  She's barefoot, toes in the sand, and it's the weekend so she's relaxed her self-imposed dress code to a sundress and sandals.  Well.  She's also terminally stupid and unable to let go of the distant possibility that Steve, oblivious as she acts, might have connected the dots between "my partner's a lesbian" and "I'm incredibly hot" to reach a conclusion of "my partner wants to do me," and then taken the further logical leap of "it's my god-given duty to throw her a bone."  They're comfortable together, after all, except for the sizzle of sexual tension that is possibly not just on Danny's part.  She keeps having thoughts that start out "Maybe..." and "There's a chance that..." and "What if she...", but she tries not to finish them.

The burgers are amazing.  Danny keeps the sensual moans to a minimum, because her daughter is three feet away with pineapple juice dripping down her chin, but it's not easy.  Steve's smirking at mother and daughter, a smirk that grows into a grin when they both inhale their burgers within two minutes and go back for seconds.  Danny's even thinking about thirds, it's so good.  She might even eat this with pineapple on it, if Steve held the burgers ransom or something on condition that she expand her horizons.

"Steve," Grace asks, in a moment of silent digestion one and a half burgers in, "why are you named Steve when you're a girl?"

"Short for Stephanie," Steve tells her, popping an orphaned shred of pineapple into her mouth with long, calloused fingers, and Danny needs to stop this train of thought right now.

"Is it because you're gay like Mommy and Danno?" Grace asks, and Danny fights the urge to just put her head down on the table and cry.

"What makes you say that?" Steve asks neutrally.

Danny jumps in quickly: "Mommy's not gay, remember, sweetie?  We talked about what that word means, and how some people use it in a bad way?"

"Because," Grace says to Steve, ignoring Danny, "Danno's name is Daniella, but when she was a kid she liked Danny because it's a boy's name, and that's because she's gay which means she gets married to girls."

Danny sighs.  "It's not that simple, monkey, remember we talked about--"

"Yeah," Steve says.  "It's because I'm gay like Mommy and Danno.  Now eat your burger, you're gonna learn how to surf after lunch and you'll need the energy."

"Okay!" Grace says, and immediately stuffs her mouth full of food.

"Manners, Gracie," Danny says absently.  She's still off-balance because of Steve, Steve, fucking _Steve_ , dropping two giant bombshells without even blinking-- _she's gay, how did I not know that she's gay_ , and then also _I will be damned if I let my child on a surfboard anytime this century and Steve is a low-down dirty bitch who just made me the bad guy_.

*****

Grace gets on a surfboard, and Danny feels like she's betraying all her principles here but at least, at the very least, she's not actually in the water.

"Hup!" Steve calls, clapping her hands.  "Let's see you jump faster!  Come on, you can do it.  One, two, three, go!" and Grace launches herself into the air and lands light as a cat, dead center on the kid-sized board Steve had pulled out of god-knows-where.  "Good job!" Steve says, and claps a maternal hand on Grace's shoulder.  She grins like it's going to break her face and glances back to Danny.

"Look, Danno!" she says, "look, I did it!"

"I know, baby," Danny says, smiling back, "you did such a good job.  Keep trying, okay?"

"Yeah," Steve says, "you gotta get really, really good at this before your mom is going to let you in the water."

"She's kinda mean sometimes," Grace says.

"Hey," Steve says, kneeling down, and even kneeling she's almost as tall as Grace, which is not fair, because at Gracie's current rate of growth she's going to surpass Danny in about six months, "she just wants you to be safe, okay?  And so do I.  So can you do some more jumps for me, honey?"

"Sure," Grace says, "I can jump really high, watch me!"

"She's like a frog," Danny says, sidling up to Steve.  "You would not believe how high she can jump on those skinny little legs.  No cookie jar is safe, believe me."

"Well," Steve smiles, "I don't have a cookie jar, so I think we're good."  She turns to correct Grace's form, and then looks back to Danny.  That smile, that one there--it's not a new smile, exactly, more like a mix of familiar ones--a little bit smug, a little bit tender, a little bit "I know the plan and you don't."

"What about Lieutenant Beefcake?" Danny asks, so quickly it's like a thought but out loud.

"What?" Steve asks, and the smile turns into a baffled squint.

"Well--" Danny says, "if you're gay.  Then that guy.  The Lieutenant guy."

"Oh," Steve says.  "Well, I simplified a little for Gracie.  But that's not a thing with him, I told you.  He's just--convenient.  You know."

"I wish I knew," Danny says, "there has been no convenience in my life in quite a while."

"Ah."  Steve raises one eyebrow, then drops it and says "Are we still talking about--"

"Yes," Danny says, and brings a hand to her face, grinning helplessly.

  


*****

That Saturday at Steve's house brings things to a simmer, but they don't boil over until two weeks later, when Steve gets shot.  It's not life-threatening, but it takes a chunk of muscle out of her left arm, and it bleeds frighteningly quickly.  They're crouched behind a dumpster, waiting for Chin and Kono to show up with backup and an ambulance, and Steve's black t-shirt is tacky with blood, dripping down her elbow and splashing onto the pavement.

"Oh shit," Danny says, "oh god, oh shit, Steve--"

"It's cool," Steve gasps out, clutching her own upper arm with white fingers.  "It's cool, don't freak out."

"I am not freaking out!" Danny shrieks, and then takes a deep breath.  All right, freaking out a little bit.  But the blood is just relentless, and it's so fast, and Steve's not going to bleed out probably but she might pass out, which would be scary, and bad, and Danny's not going to think about that anymore.  She fumbles with the buttons of her blouse before just ripping it off, folding the fabric over, and wrapping it tightly around Steve's wound.

"Here, babe," she says, "turn so I can put pressure on the wound, turn for me, okay?"

"Okay," Steve says, and rolls on her side a little.  The blood is so so hot under Danny's fingers, and her hands are blue-red with the blood and she's half-naked and can't keep out the irrational worry that her belly looks weird rolling over the waistband of her pants.

"Hold on, babe," Danny grits out, "hold on for me, just hold on until the ambulance gets here, everything's going to be fine--"

"Okay," Steve says, and looks up into Danny's face with such trust and surrender that Danny's not even the one losing blood here and she thinks she's going to faint.

They're staring at each other like that when an ambulance squeals into the alley and a nameless angel of an EMT shows up to tourniquet Steve's wound and take her to the hospital.  Danny stands helplessly with her cherry-red demi-cup on display to the mob of HPD officers swarming the scene.  She pulls it together to answer their questions, borrows a jacket from somebody to cover up with, but there's a long moment where she's just looking at the bloodstain there on the pavement, thinking: _what am I waiting for_?

She moves in with Steve after that.  No big declaration--she just packs a bag and throws it in the trunk of the Camaro, and then when Steve is released Danny drives her home and stays there.  She's prepared to tackle Steve to the bed to make her rest, but Steve is weirdly subdued, like somehow this totally non-fatal gunshot wound is getting to her, making her think. 

"Danny," Steve says, once she wakes up from the nap she fell into the second they got home, "you should stay here tonight."

"Planning on it," Danny says, closing her laptop.  She walks over to the bed, slowly, and tugs the elastic off Steve's fraying braid.

"Mmmmm," Steve says, and turns her face into the pillow to expose her hair.  Danny unweaves the plait and gets her fingertips against Steve's scalp, rubbing gently through the thick wavy tangle.

"I'm not going anywhere," Danny says.  Steve turns to look her in the eye.  There's a little hope in that look, and a little tenderness, and a little loopiness too from the pain meds.

"Turn over, babe," Danny says.  Steve looks confused but does, rolling off her good arm and onto her back.  Danny gets a knee on the mattress and climbs in, straddling Steve for one brief and inappropriately hot second before settling on the inside of the bed, pressed up against Steve's good side.  She lifts Steve's arm and ducks under it, gets her cheek against that firm strong shoulder, within licking distance of those small beautiful breasts.  Not that now is the time for that.

"I'm not," Danny says, and then kisses Steve gently, first lower lip, then upper, "going anywhere.  I promise."

"Really?" Steve asks, small and childish.

"Really," Danny says, and the next kiss is less a promise of security and more a promise of sex.  Steve's tongue is hot and slick and her jaw under Danny's palm is smooth, and she moans like this is the hottest thing she's ever done and Danny thinks, smugly, "Lieutenant _who_?"  They neck like kids and it's weird, because objectively Danny is pretty experienced, she and Rachel spent a small fortune at Babeland during the good years, but this, this--well, it's the hottest thing Danny has ever done.  Steve smells like salt but she can't tell if it's blood or sweat or sea water.  Steve sucks Danny's lip against her teeth and the feeling sparks between her mouth and her nipples and her cunt.

"God damn it, Danny," Steve says, letting up just long enough to talk.  "You should have done this yesterday, when we could have done something fun."

"I don't know," Danny drawls, grinning lazily, "I can think of plenty of fun things," and her hand is sneaking up Steve's ribcage to The Holy Land when Steve shakes her head.

"Pain meds," she says.  "I can't feel my teeth, Danno," and then she giggles, and okay, maybe the fun stuff is going to have to wait.  Danny gives her a gentle kiss on the mouth, just because.

"Tomorrow," Danny says.  "When you're feeling better.  I will rock your world, McGarrett.  I hope you're looking forward to it."

"Tomorrow?" Steve asks, and there's that childlike gratefulness again.  "You'll be here tomorrow?"

"Steve," Danny says, looking her in the eye, "I'll be here every tomorrow.  Okay?"

"Okay," Steve says, and tightens her arm around Danny's shoulders.  Her grip doesn't loosen, not even when her breathing settles into the slow heavy rhythm of sleep.  Danny doesn't mind; this is the safest place she can think of to be.  She could stay here forever.  And she will, she thinks; it's high time somebody gave Steve what she wants.

  
  



End file.
